


The Last Temptation of Anakin Skywalker

by cthene



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Continuation, Force Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, That's Not How The Force Works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthene/pseuds/cthene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi Wan gives, and Anakin takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

And then all of a sudden, he is standing in a twilit clearing somewhere down on the surface of the Forest Moon, surrounded by towering trees and flickering torches.  
  
He blinks in confusion. Everything around him is translucent, and staticky, and filter-blue, like a hologram. Nothing in the world seems real except for himself.  
  
He wants to laugh, or cry but finds he can't. His body might _look_ real, but it feels weightless and numb. He is trapped between worlds, in some sort of cosmic airlock, and the atmosphere is rushing back in...  
  
 _Luke._ Luke is here! And the princess, besides. He smiles. Like everything else, they seem intangible and far away. He hopes his children can see him. He hopes this one last look will be enough for all three of them. He wants to say goodbye, to say he is sorry, at the very least to say _something._  
  
But he is already out of time.  
  
-  
  
He is falling like a stone through a sea of pink and violet stars, being polished smooth by the ceaseless currents of impossible water. And everything is as millions of marzipan soap bubbles circling a colossal heavenly drain. He struggles to remember what he was before this, but his mind is full of helium, and every time he forms a thought, it is instantly carried away into space.  
  
Everything accelerates, and then suddenly comes to a shattering halt. He opens his eyes to find himself lying prone in a field of jet-black grass under a blazing midnight sky. Sensation comes crashing back into him, as his body fills with weight, and volume, and warmth. He gasps, startled by the now-alien urge to breath, rolling and twisting insensibly in the grass, running trembling hands over his chest, and throat, and face. His body is whole again, and wrapped in fabric several times over. Even the arm he lost to Count Dooku has been restored. He kicks his new legs against the ground, madly licking and biting at his new arms like a wounded dog. Cold tongues of wind lap at his hair and clothes, and his warm flesh sparkles all over with feeling. He sobs like an infant, overwhelmed by the sheer fact of his own corporeal existence.

 

He clutches the fabric around himself, savoring its fine, knitted texture against his new skin. Grasping for control of his new muscles, he holds his body close and still until his wildly pounding heart relaxes into a strong, steady rhythm, and each new breath stops being quite so shockingly, terrifyingly pleasurable. After a few minutes of this, he is able to haul himself unsteadily onto his knees, at which point it occurs to him that he is shivering. Now that the sheer novelty of it is beginning to wear off, the cold registers as mildly unpleasant.

 

He starts at the crunch of footsteps on the frosty grass, peering fearfully into the semi-darkness. A figure is advancing towards him, hooded and mysterious, but bearing with it such an aura of benevolence and gentleness that he is moved to bow his head in surrender to it at once. It stands over him, its long robes fluttering in the constant wind, textured and shimmering, like the wings of a giant, blood-sucking moth. And at length, it whispers:

 

“Anakin.”

 

At the sound of his own name, he screams, his body crumpling in anguish. His memories are like scraps of colored paper being buffeted about in the wind, offering him fleeting, stylized glimpses of his life before. The knowledge of what he once was, and what he became, and all that he lost, drives him to the ground.

 

“Anakin,” says the figure, more insistently this time. And with a whimper, he dares to look up into the solemn, weathered, bearded face.

 

“Master?” he asks, in a voice he thought he had left on shores of Mustafar forever.

 

“I haven't been your master for a very long time, Anakin.” Obi Wan kneels, carefully folding his hands in his lap. He is just as Anakin last saw him, a weary old man, but instead of his familiar Jedi robes, he wears the many-layered, dove-gray vestments of some still more ancient numinal order. “You forsook my teachings,” he says, “and pledged yourself to another master.” There is no reproach in his quiet voice. Only infinite sadness. 

 

“I'm so sorry,” says Anakin, only half-comprehending, but wanting desperately to please.

 

“I know you are.” Obi Wan smiles feebly, surveying the wreckage of what was once, long ago, his pride and joy. “And I am prepared to forgive you everything, if only you will forgive me in turn, for failing you as I did.” He turns to squint into the vanishing phlox-bright horizon, the raw air blasting his mournful, gray face, and says the only thing he reasonably can: “We have hurt each other very much, old friend.”

 

The sky above them is the color of plum-skin, swirling with dark auroras of ionized dust. Anakin tries to follow the line of the old sorcerer’s gaze into the distance, but the roaring vastness dizzies him, and he is forced to look away. He winces, reaching down into the cool, moist dirt, the lush, tangling broadgrass, crusted with frozen dew. Bending over intently, he flexes his smooth, golden hands, marveling at their strength and beauty. Now that his initial disorientation has passed, he is able to examine himself more deliberately. His body is just as it was before Mustafar- _More_ perfect, even. He finds he is dressed in the same plain, yet elegant clothes as Obi Wan: a snug inner-layer of soft thermal material, a slate-gray tabard and leggings, a coal-gray cloak of fine angora wool. On his feet are leather slippers, and his hair is covered by a delicate gray veil.

 

“Where are we, Master?” he whispers, as if he were nine years old again, his fate uncertain. “What has become of us?” In the boiling pan of death, his soul has been cooked down like sugar beets into its essential syrup, a sticky black molasses of loneliness and despair.

 

“Oh... nowhere in particular,” says Obi Wan, with just a hint of his old humor.

 

“Is Master Qui Gon here?”

 

“No. He, and Master Yoda, and all of the other Jedi... have transcended into the Netherworld of the Force. You and I are the only ones who remain. For you see, Anakin,” he sighs, “you are not permitted to go where they have gone. The Force will not accept a soul at war with itself into the fold.”

 

Anakin's eyes widen in panic. The howling boreal wilderness stretches out in every direction. To be trapped forever in such a place-! To wander the dark forests alone, for all eternity, contemplating what he has done- This is to be his punishment. Physical pain he can endure, but  _this_ -! 

 

“You mustn't think of it as a punishment,” says Obi Wan, gently. “It's really more of a... test.” 

 

“No-” Anakin sobs, until he makes himself lightheaded, unused to lungs capable of drawing such deep breaths. His throat burns with gall, his head throbs with blood. For what good is his new voice, if there is no one to talk to? What good are his new limbs, if there is no one to hold? “I can't bear to be alone anymore,” he keens.

 

“Perhaps,” Obi Wan ventures, “you needn't be.” Somewhat sheepishly, he bows his covered head. “I know we've had our difficulties with one another. And if you say the word, I will join my brethren at once, and never bother you again. But if my company would bring you solace- I will remain behind, with you, for as long as you wish.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Anakin moans against the cold, sedgy ground. He is far too frightened and sick with longing to worry about how pitiful he has become. He looks up to find the only one he has ever been glad to call master furrowing his brow in sympathy, and slowly unfolding his soft, wrinkled hands, and gingerly reaching...

 

And then- joy of joys!- he is being _held_. For the first time in almost a quarter-century, he is feeling the touch of another being. Oh, the magnetic warmth of another creature's flesh! He had all but forgotten that such pleasures even _existed_. He shudders, weeping into his master's chest, utterly wretched and lost. 

 

“Shh...” Obi Wan hushes, stroking his hair through the gossamer veil. “I won't leave you, my beloved padawan.”

 

“ _Never alone again-_ ” Anakin pleads. “ _Never alone- Always with you-_ ”

 

Despite Obi Wan's assurances to the contrary, he is certain this desolate world is intended to serve as his personal hell. To spend eternity here, alone with his own thoughts, trapped in his own hated mind-! It would be the worst torment imaginable.

 

But an eternity wrapped in his master's arms? That doesn't seem so bad at all.

 

He smiles wolfishly to himself, as he leans in, nuzzling his face against his master's neck. Once again, good Obi Wan has interceded on his behalf, and once again, the rules have been suspended for him, because he is special. Yes, he is beginning to feel more and more like his special self by the minute- To remember what it was like to live in this body, with all its thrumming power and insatiable desire.

 

“You are Luke's Obi Wan,” he says, low and close. “I want _my_ Obi Wan.” 

 

And the elder Jedi gasps, to suddenly find himself in his most excellent thirty-six-year-old shape: Hale, and strong, and copper-haired, because this is how Anakin prefers him. The change which overtakes his form is not unpleasant, but he cannot entirely suppress a thrill of fear. He is placing himself at Anakin's mercy so long as he remains here, for this is Anakin's twisted dream. And though he loves the erstwhile Sith Lord dearly, he cannot trust him.

 

“Look at you,” Anakin coos, caressing the smoothening face, the reddening beard. “You are just as I remembered you- Just as I _dreamed_ of you-”

 

That these were dreams of vengeance, he does not mention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue ghost not-slash? Space wizard purgatory? General mind-fuckery? A morality play in the form of a nightmare?
> 
> Strap in, folks.


	2. Chapter 2

It is nonsense to talk of “days” in space, but at the end of each period so-marked he stood on the bridge of the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ and gazed into the endless void, stretching himself fishing-wire thin across the galaxy, casting out a psychic line in vain, before finally closing himself off again, and turning away dejected from the viewport with a swish of his cape. Each time, his chagrin and disbelief at having to start his search all over again were fresh.

 

It was almost a full standard year after Bespin when, for the first time, his increasingly desperate calls were answered.

 

_Luke...?_

 

The presence was fearful and hesitant, but fired by reckless curiosity, and moved by pity, it had finally responded to his pain. It nudged him, ever so circumspectly, making no promises, and he grasped madly for it, causing it to retreat in terror. He cried out in frustration, heedless of the terrified officers who surrounded him in the physical plane. To glimpse his quarry, only to lose track of it a moment later!

 

_Luke-!_

 

After a brief eternity, the presence reappeared. It brushed against him, almost defiant in its softness, offering him something he had forgotten how to name. A dare, in the form of caress.

 

And trembling, he returned it. This was so much more than anyone had shared with him in so long! It jazzed him like a hit of spice, set him instantly aching with hunger for more. The presence ignited with surprised joy, reaching eagerly back across the infinite expanse of space. He didn't know it yet, but by revealing this secret, wounded part of himself, he had inadvertently shown the young man at the other end of the galaxy-spanning connection that there was something left in him worth saving.

 

It would take two more standard years, and a surreptitious meeting on a landing platform on Forest Moon of Endor, before Darth Vader would come to understand the turning point this brief touch had represented.

 

-

 

Obi Wan stands, noting a complete lack of pain or stiffness, and takes his first steps in the body Anakin has given him. With numb fingers, he peels back many-layered robes to find a smooth, solid, flawless chest. This is not an entirely accurate recreation of the youthful form he once inhabited, but rather some idealized version, drawn from Anakin's memories- or more likely Anakin's _fantasies_ \- of him. Perfectly healthy, totally unblemished, perhaps slightly thicker with muscle than he ever actually was- He looks up, lips parted in astonishment, and begins to back away in fear.

 

“Master,” Anakin mews, taking unsteadily to his own feet. “Where are you going? Please, come back-” He staggers forward, grasping Obi Wan hungrily about the shoulders, and crashing heavily into him. Their renewed bodies press sweetly against each other, rubbing the soft, gray fabric between them, and they shudder and sigh, both so unused to this, having both been so alone for so long. Obi Wan's heart races in mixed terror and pleasure, as his new form surrenders to Anakin's heated caresses. Like everything else in this dream-realm, he is ruled by Anakin's imagination. His body is Anakin's plaything; as responsive as the former-Sith wills it to be.

 

“I promise I won't hurt you,” Anakin mouths against the creamy flesh of Obi Wan's throat. “Not anymore...” But his bruising, durasteel grip belies his cloud-soft voice.

 

“Listen to me,” Obi Wan struggles. “I am trying to help you-”

 

“You _are_ helping me, Master,” Anakin murmurs, kissing ardently at the other man's furred jaw. “You said you were sorry-” he moans, nuzzling their faces against each other, “for failing me. And now, you can make up for it- by giving me- what I have always needed from you.”

 

“You misunderstand, Anakin.”

 

“How so?” he demands, his voice rising in agitation. “I thought you were offering to stay with me- To be with me-” His eyes darken with sudden, panic-fueled fury. “You have always done this! You have always withheld yourself from me! Ever since I was a boy- I couldn't bear it then, and I can't bear it now!” His grip on Obi Wan's shoulders is tightening to the point of violence. He tilts his head back, staring up into the soaring, violet-black empyrean, forced to look back down again as his knees grow weak beneath him. To be trapped here, alone, forever! _Alone forever_.

 

“I would have done anything for your approval, your affection- But you always turned away from me-”

 

“Anakin, _please_ -”

 

He closes his eyes against the view of trees in the distance, their dark, twisted shapes torturing his vision. The cold wind punishes him unceasingly. Obi Wan's body is the only source of warmth in this entire abyssal dimension. What's more, his master is the only possible source of solace, of comfort, of pleasure. His hands seize fist-fulls of Obi Wan's cloak, trembling with a rabid, terrifying desperation.

 

“You are all I have now, Master! If you won't give me your love, then I will have nothing! I will _be_ nothing!”

 

The familiar, bearded face creases ruthfully. Though restored to the full efflorescence of youth and beauty, it has lost none of its gentle wisdom. “I want to give you my love and more, Anakin.”

 

“ _More?_ ” he chokes. “What more could there be?” His azure eyes are lit with fear and wonder.

 

“I want to free you,” says Obi Wan, pulling away from the smothering embrace. He takes both of Anakin's hands, and holds his gaze, mournfully imploring. “The only thing I long for more than to transcend into the Netherworld, to finally be at peace... is to bring you, my dearest friend, with me. But since you have banished yourself here, I cannot.”

 

Anakin frowns, uncomprehending. “Banished myself? I've done no such thing.”

 

“Oh, but you _have_ ,” Obi Wan sighs. “It is your refusal to let go of the darkness which keeps you here. If only you could see...”

 

Vader tears his hands away in sudden indignation. “Do not speak to me in riddles, Jedi!” he growls. “What is this place, really?”

 

“A prison of your own construction.”

 

He casts his gaze about the dark, foreboding, frigid landscape, frustrated and scared. “But there _is_ a way out. Is that what you're saying?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And-” His sculpted features quiver, as if he is on the verge of tears. “And you will help me, Master? You won't- You won't leave me here?”

 

“If it is what you truly want, I will never, ever leave you,” says Obi Wan, in a tender tone he has rarely ever favored his apprentice with in the past. “I will do everything in my power to help you.” His silvergreen gaze lifts soberly. “But take heed, Anakin: Only you can confront the darkness within yourself. Only you can resolve the conflict which ravages your soul. Only you can choose to finally be healed.”

 

Anakin moans, pressing a hand to his mouth in anguish. “Yes,” he whimpers. “I want to-” He sways on his feet. “I want to see Master Qui Gon again. I want to tell him how sorry I am. I-” His voice breaks, already halfway to weeping. The howling wind swallows his words, but his meaning is clear. “I want to come home,” he mouths.

 

“And so you shall, my padawan.” Obi Wan smiles, and this time it finally reaches his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allow me to present, "look at your life, look at your choices" the fanfic.


	3. Chapter 3

In a way, twenty years _wasn't_ such a long time.

 

Vader liked the steady, rational tempo of military life. He liked having clearly defined goals, and he liked accomplishing them. He liked being taken seriously, and treated with deference- though he had mixed feelings about being regarded with such fear. His work was his life, and it was simple, orderly, mechanical, and pure (while still providing him with plenty of opportunities to exercise his flair for the dramatic.)

 

He could only turn to the Dark Side once- all at glorious, frothing, violent once. Twenty years spent living out the consequences of this decision were nothing- An epilogue, an afterthought.

 

He had fought himself to a stalemate. The constant, blunted ache of loneliness subdued him, while his thirst for vengeance spurred him on- And wasn't that balance, after a fashion?

 

He seemed to remember that Anakin Skywalker had been an extremely impatient young man, stirred by ravenous desires, and prompted by a kind of blustering, directionless ambition. He remembered pacing vaulted temple hallways like a caged nexu. Counting the hours until he could bury his face in his wife's perfumed hair. Tossing with nightmares in his narrow bunk on many a Force-forsaken, war-torn world. He had dreaded a great many things back then, and looked forward to others, but always he had drunk of the sour nectar of the future with all the reckless thirst of one who regarded his past with no small measure of shame. As Anakin Skywalker, he had anxiously marked each moment which stood between him and his destiny.

 

But as Darth Vader, he hardly even seemed to notice as days, months, years- and finally two decades- flitted quietly past him, like moats of dust out of the corner of one's eye.

 

-

 

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

 

They are standing side by side at the edge of the tangling black forest, gray cloaks whipping in the ceaseless freezing wind.

 

“The source of the conflict,” says Obi Wan, arms folded, one hand stroking his beard in thought. This gesture is so painfully familiar, so utterly charming, that it makes Anakin want to hold the Jedi master down and murder him with kisses, but he settles for leaning a little bit closer so that their shoulders just brush.

 

“And what will it look like?” asks Anakin, trying and failing not to sound impatient. He finds it difficult now to modulate his voice and facial expression, having concealed them both behind his mask for so long.

 

“You will know it when you see it,” Obi Wan smiles.

 

Together they wade into the dense foliage, mostly making their way by touch through the shuffling dark. The occasional shaft of star-light filtering down through the leaves of the trees reveals them to be just as inky and gleaming as the grass in the meadow. Everything that would be green is black. Thorny branches snag their clothes and tear at the skin of their hands and faces, the knotty, uneven ground tries to hinder them, the cold air stings their eyes and paralyzes their mouths, but they are both strong, and young, and sure-footed again, and they make fine progress all the same.

 

In this body, Anakin reflects, even _pain_ feels good, like a thrilling test of fortitude which drives him on instead of grinding him down. What a miracle they are, these clambering legs, these grasping arms, this hungry, pulsing core. So far, for a hell, it could be much worse.

 

Soon they come upon a river in a clearing, its sloping banks covered with slippery gray stones, its black surface leaping with rainbows like a puddle of spilled fuel, like an inverted mirror of the sooty auroras in the violet sky above. It vanishes into the distance in both directions, visible only as scatters of glitter in the frustratingly low light. Its sound is a low, haunting chorus of whispers, cataloging a lifetime of hopes and fears, daydreams and nightmares, and deeds good and evil.

 

Anakin or Darth Vader gives a short, barking laugh at this, ruination or salvation poured out in a path at his feet. The symbolic architecture of his own subconscious is appealingly literal. They will find the source of the conflict at the source of the river.

 

Obi Wan, too, is chuckling softly and shaking his head.

 

“Hey,” the former-Sith quips, “I never claimed to be a poet.” He turns his gaze back towards the water, abruptly sobering. “Just follow it? That seems far too easy.” He takes a deep breath, as if to remind himself that he can, and catches the thick, loamy scent of the forest.

 

“There is no telling what trials you will face along the way.”

 

“Right,” he frowns. Only his full mouth and dimpled chin are visible beneath the hooded veil until he lifts his head, revealing guileless, jewel-blue eyes. “But I have you to help me, don't I? And so, I cannot fail. It was only when we were parted that things went wrong for us- Together, there was nothing we could not accomplish. I was a fool not to see it before.” Hesitantly, he reaches out to take the other man's hand and is rewarded with a gentle squeeze.

 

“I have the utmost faith in you, Anakin.”

 

He peers into the illegible blackness, trying futilely to read what lies beyond the bank of stones. A frisson of nervous excitement inspires him to press his master's hand to his lips in a gesture of mock-chivalry. They are knights of no realm now, wandering off into a dark eternity together without even their swords to light their way. (Perhaps he has a bit of poet in him after all.)

 

“A mission,” he grins. “Just like old times.”

 

And so they walk, against the course of the river. They walk and walk, for what must be days, though the sky never changes, and the night never ends. They walk through thickets, and starlit clearings, and long, dense stretches where they can't see anything at all. They feel their way along, steadying themselves against the trees, and against each others' bodies, scratched-up, bleeding, frost-bitten fingers clasping shoulders, skimming over purpled lips, and sometimes reaching shyly inside folds of soft, gray fabric to find smooth, warm, healthy flesh.

 

Kilometer after kilometer the river runs, its uncanny chorus of whispers growing ever more tortured and dissonant, as its source draws ever nearer, and still along its slippery shore they walk, and walk, and walk. They walk until finally one day it begins to rain, a freezing, bitter, mercury-colored rain, and they are forced to seek shelter, or be soaked to the skin.

 

Deep inside a knot of trees they make themselves a bed of soft, dry fronds and lie there, cradling each other close, attempting to rub away the miserable, unrelenting cold. Unfastening their tabards, they lay their bare chests against each other, pulling their cloaks around them both like blankets.

 

Anakin shudders involuntarily, and not from the temperature. It's just such a treat, such an absolute joy, to feel the press of velvety, naked flesh against his own again after so many lonely, desolate years. He mouths artlessly at Obi Wan's face and throat, long-forgotten urges suddenly overwhelming him.

 

“ _Need- Need to feel more of you-_ ” he groans. Remembering the solace it once offered, he reaches for their bond... only to be met with an impenetrable wall of psychic granite. “Master, what is this?” he whimpers, pawing at Obi Wan's face in the dark. “Why can't I touch you?”

 

“I built these shields to protect myself from Darth Vader.”

 

“Well, take them down now,” he demands. “Let me in!”

 

“I would very much like to do that, Anakin,” says Obi Wan, gently, wearily, sounding immeasurably old despite his physical youth. “But I must warn you... Our connection in the Force never had a chance to gradually fade in the natural way. Instead, it was violently ripped out all at once. It has been an object of bitter resentment for you, and of terrible remorse for me, for longer than it was ever a healthy bond. It has festered and decayed inside our hearts. During my long exile, my shields served not only to conceal my whereabouts from you, but also to protect us both from the consequences of the severing. If I remove them now, there will be... pain.”

 

“But, what if it's something I need in order to be healed?” says Anakin, desperately. “It might even be a part of the test.”

 

“If you think it will help you,” Obi Wan sighs, “we can try to repair our bond. It can be done- But it must be done _very_ gently, and it _will_ take time.”

 

“Please, Master. I need to able to touch your mind. If there is any love for me left in you- I _need_ to feel it.”

 

“Very well,” says Obi Wan, wistfully. He closes his eyes, buries his face in Anakin's hair... and lets go.

 

The flood of agony is instantaneous. Anakin cries out, deliriously grasping for his master's presence, twisting and moaning in confusion and anguish when a touch which used to give security and comfort brings him nothing but pain. Of the fine, silvery stem which once bloomed between their hearts, only the gnarled, raggedy roots are left. He presses their chests together, trying to make these pulpy stumps connect, but it's like grinding two open wounds against each other. He is only making things worse.

 

“ _Anakin_ -” Obi Wan gasps, “ _Anakin, stop this-!_ ” He seizes his padawan's head with both hands, forcing the other to meet his eyes. “The remnants-” he grinds out, hardly able to speak through the suffering, “contain within them- the moment of severing-”

 

“ _I can't bear it, I need to feel you-_ ” Anakin sobs.

 

“If you don't stop this right now- that moment- _the memory-_ ”

 

But Anakin doesn't listen (as he didn't listen then) and again, he is burning alive. His screams shake the trees, bring the ice cold river to a rolling boil. His body is perfectly intact, there is no fire in sight- But he can feel it, peeling his flesh away, raping, consuming.

 

“Anakin, you must let go of me!” Obi Wan urges.

 

But he can't. He won't. He just presses harder and harder, screams louder and louder, begging for a relief that will not come.

 

Resigning himself to the fact that he won't receive any cooperation, Obi Wan grits his teeth and reaches into the bloody, throbbing, psychic mass between them. With deft mental fingers, he painstakingly forges a single invisible strand- The brittle skeleton of a brand new bond. Working calmly through a haze of agonizing pain, he sends the very first trickle of affection over the virgin link.

 

Anakin ceases his violent thrashing and screaming as these soothing particles of thought hit him, like quicksilver dewdrops, instantly dousing the imaginary flames. He collapses, trembling, and weeping, and grasping blindly for that raw new filament as if it were his only lifeline in a treacherous open sea.

 

Obi Wan falls beside him, limp with exhaustion. He too is shaking with need. The lone thread offers a meager taste of their old closeness, but its not nearly enough, and in a way, its worse than nothing at all. Worse, because of how it promises, how it teases-

 

“ _More-_ _Oh please, more-_ ”

 

“No, Anakin,” he says forcefully, wrapping his arms around the younger man and holding him still. “Slowly. It _must_ be done slowly.”

 

And so they lie for hours together in this way, waiting out the storm. Sharing chaste kisses, and searching caresses, and carefully, tenderly, ever-so-gradually, knitting their bruised souls back together again, one gossamer, candy-floss thread at a time. _This is hell_ , Anakin thinks, _this is torture._ But each time another fine, silver loop connects, winding itself around the others and pulling itself tight, he sighs in ecstasy, nuzzling Obi Wan's beard with the flat of his cheek. Each time the touch of that familiar presence grows a little bit warmer, a little bit sweeter, and his existence grows a little bit more bearable. Not for the first time, Darth Vader wonders: How can it take so long to repair what took him only moments to destroy?

 

And still it rains, and rains, and rains.

 

 

“You know, I never stopped loving you, Master.”

 

“Yes, you did.”

 

“Well, I never stopped _thinking_ about you.”

 

“That's not the same thing, Anakin.”

 

 

And at last, too late, he sees:

 

It's not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you didn't think _this_ story would ever get an update. But here it is, out of nowhere, just to keep you on your toes. 
> 
> Remember, dear reader:
> 
> Always in motion is the future.


End file.
